


the heart he owes

by pan_dora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon Divergence - 5x20, Character Death, Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-09 20:46:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18645808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pan_dora/pseuds/pan_dora
Summary: Stiles wonders if maybe this is his fault, if this is his punishment after all. Actions have consequences, even those long forgotten; but Stiles remembers. He remembers Theo standing on his doorstep, nine years old and crying, begging him to listen for just five minutes, two, just one. Stiles, please, you’re the only one- He’s never learned what he is the only one for because he’s had a shitty day at the hospital and a shitty argument with Scott and when Theo stood there with even more problems, Stiles broke one of the two promises he gave his mother; never be angry with your father before he goes to work, never turn away people who need your aid.





	the heart he owes

**Author's Note:**

> For SteoWeek2019 - Day 3: Crime & Punishment

 

Stiles has dealt with death so often, he feels invincible.

It’s a by-product of fighting with werewolves for years and still coming out on top - despite skin made of papyrus and bones of porcelain. It will inevitably go to your head. Stiles should know better. No, he _does_ know better, and yet, he still finds himself surprised when he happens to end up in a position of imminent death.

But maybe, it’s the circumstances surrounding his demise. Because death doesn’t come to him out of his own recklessness. It doesn’t come because he finally bit off more than he can chew. This weird acceptance of his own mortality has always been part of him. He looked it in the eye just moments ago when he stepped into Deucalion’s path and brought his baseball bat down. The werewolf caught it, laughing, and did what Stiles expected – he crushed it with his hand. It took not even half a minute for Deucalion to realise he’s made a crucial mistake. Underestimating Stiles. Werewolves tend to do that with weak, easily breakable humans. But their species is just as vulnerable if you know how to hurt them.

And Stiles knows.

He worked on his bat for this very special moment. He worked on this bat with Theo’s doubtful blue eyes directed at him. He worked on this bat to kill Deucalion. And he did. Seeing his body collapse after the yellow wolfsbane entered his body filled Stiles with a kind of satisfaction he can’t fathom to put into words. He stayed, watched the self-declared Demon Wolf die and stepped over his lifeless body, left him to rot until someone else will find him. Someone had to finish what Scott wouldn’t and Derek couldn’t.

Stiles came here to kill, and this is his punishment.

Just that it’s not meant to punish _him_.

Stiles reached the scene when Kira slammed her sword in the ground. He reached the scene only seconds too late to stop it. As the floor rumbles, so do his bones. It’s like he knows before it happens that something is wrong. His stomach drops and his chest contorts. He presses a hand over his heart. The baseball bat’s remnants fall from his fingers. Nobody sees. Nobody notices. Everyone is too busy watching the ground crack and splinter and break.

He’s invisible only a few feet away from his pack. He’s invisible because of vigilantism. See, there’s a reason street justice has been banned by the law. It will destroy the lives of the innocent. You’re always a bad person in someone else’s story. You’re always hated by someone. But Stiles doesn’t judge Kira for doing what she did. He did the same thing mere moments ago. The only difference is that he had the guts to do it himself rather than let someone else do his dirty work.

Theo steps back as the cracks in the ground reach him. For about a second, they stop right underneath his feet – Stiles sucks in a breath before panic can steal it from him, makes a move towards Theo before fear can paralyse his body. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe this feeling in his chest comes from something else. Maybe it stems from whispers in the dark night, from hands roaming over bodies safely hidden underneath covers, from stolen kisses where nobody can see, from knowing he’s about to lose it all.

It’s probably selfish that the panic leaves when the cracks move further, move past Theo. It’s probably selfish that his first thought doesn’t go to his father, whose life will be easier without him, or his friends, who survived so many deaths his will be just another drop in the ocean. Instead, he realises that the nightmares are going to stop now, that he won’t have to live with this anxiety, guilt, and rage clashing underneath his skin, that he doesn’t have to be in a world without him, that he can see his mom again. The monster will die with him.

“No, no- _Stiles!_ ”

His name echoes from the walls, and maybe it’s the way Theo says it, or maybe it’s the way Stiles interprets it, that makes him understand, ‘ _this is how I die’_. He expected a thought like this to be linked to panic, to a survival instinct, would lead to him running or fighting back. But he just stands there and takes a single step aside, almost as if he wants to give Tara more room as she heaves herself out of the ground; an abstract construct of muscles and bones that shouldn’t be able to function yet somehow does.

And it’s lethal.

And it’s coming to get him.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Stiles sees Theo break into a sprint. Time, however, is a funny construct when it comes to death. Somehow you have time to remember all the important moments of your life – hugging his father, Lydia smiling at him, his first ever lacrosse goal, his parents watching him tearing the paper of a Christmas present, the night in the woods, Theo crouching in his window frame – and still you don’t have the modicum of a chance to avoid it. Because Tara has already placed her hand on his cheek. She’s already close enough for her rotten breath to file over his face. But Theo is still so far away.

When it happens, it barely takes time. A split second of nothing but the feeling of something burying deep into his stomach, of something cutting through him that doesn’t belong in his body, that doesn’t belong to him.

Then it’s over.

Stiles wonders if maybe this is his fault, if this is his punishment after all. Actions have consequences, even those long forgotten; but Stiles remembers. He remembers Theo standing on his doorstep, nine years old and crying, begging him to listen for just five minutes, two, _just one. Stiles, please, you’re the only one-_ He’s never learned what he is the only one for because he’s had a shitty day at the hospital and a shitty argument with Scott and when Theo stood there with even more problems, Stiles broke one of the two promises he gave his mother; never be angry with your father before he goes to work, never turn away people who need your aid.

He didn’t help Theo that night. A decision that caused Tara to die in the creek, slowly, painfully, helplessly. His decision is the catalyst for all that has happened in Beacon Hills over the last few weeks. He should’ve let him in, should’ve shown Theo the smallest amount of pity. He should’ve listened to him. Isn’t it quite ironic how choosing Scott over Theo would kickstart his own death? That when he slammed the door shut, telling him they can’t be friends, the clock started ticking?

It’s about to hit zero.

Lydia’s scream echoes through the tunnels, broken and damaged, a voice torn to shreds. Stiles still hears Tara’s rattled breathing, her dead voice whispering, “I take from him what he took from me.” His life? His freedom? His trust? What did she take by killing Stiles? What would Theo lose if she-

His heart.

 _Oh_.

His knees give way and he falls into Theo’s arm, safe, sound, and it still doesn’t hurt.

Tara crumbles to dust while his blood paints the ground. He sees her smile. Her job his done, her purpose fulfilled. Stiles doesn’t find it in him to be angry with her. He did the same thing. Hatred coming full-circle. He killed Deucalion out of revenge. His friends dragged her from hell for the same reason, and Tara came for vengeance on her brother.

“Stiles, _Stiles_ , look at me.”

He does, with effort, and when he tries to raise his hand, Theo grabs it, intertwines their fingers. Stiles smiles, or at least he thinks he does. Maybe it looks as painfully fake as Theo’s. They both know, don’t they? Theo presses his free hand on the gash in his stomach.

Stiles heaves a breath. “You gotta- take care of- of Dad.”

Theo shakes his head. “It’s not that bad.” He’s obviously lying. Theo has to smell the blood Stiles tastes in his mouth. That’s never a good sign. That’s never- “I’ll take care of you. I’ll get you fixed.” There’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing that’ll help. He’s not a werewolf, not a chimera to be brought back by the Dread Doctors’ sciences. Stiles is dying, already dead. Theo should know that. Of all people, Theo should know how death works. He’s caused it often enough.

“It’s- it’s okay.” It’s just so cold. So, goddamn cold.

“No, don’t _say_ that.” Theo looks up, the smile vanishing for an expression of helplessness. A tear runs down his face. Followed by another. Their friendship ended with tears. It's not fair that it happens again. 

Stiles knows they’re not alone. Not at all. His friends are there. He can feel them. They won't end up alone. They will never be alone. It's Theo he has to protect from breaking. Stiles opens his mouth, watches his blood drop from his bottom lip. His eyes grow heavy. He’s tired. And cold. But mostly so tired. “Theo,” he forces out, his voice a grotesque copy of what it used to be. Cracking. Broken. Quiet. “ _Theo_ ,” he repeats, and he can taste the iron on his tongue, a tinge of salt. He tastes death. The coughing is what gets his attention. Theo looks down again, pulls Stiles further up. He’s sitting now but that doesn’t help. His head falls forward, against his shoulder. If he closes his eyes, he’ll fall asleep. Just like that.

He’ll fall asleep.

But not yet. He can’t. Not yet. Not until-

“What?”

 _I love you._ His mouth doesn't move. The words won't come. Stiles stares at their intertwined fingers, tries to squeeze again, and notices how his view slowly starts to blur. As if someone pulls a thin layer of film over his eyes. At least, the last thing he sees is something nice, something peaceful. 

“Scott, _Scott_!” Theo yells, his voice cracking as well – and Stiles tries not to think about how he must hear his heartbeat slowing down. “You have to help him. _Do_ something.” The despair carves a hole into his chest. It’s selfish to hope that he will fall asleep warm and safe and painless. It’s selfish to ask Theo to hold him until it’s over, to keep him warm until there's nothing left. It’s selfish to ask him to be strong, to play pretend just so he can die with a smile on his lips.

Stiles tries to look up, to see his face one more time. But he can’t. “’s too late.” The bite won’t take. He doesn’t want it to. They can't risk it. This is okay. The nightmare ends. Stiles doesn’t want to become another Paige, doesn’t want to see Theo suffer because he caused Stiles pain for his own selfish reasons. He doesn't want to become another monster. “Okay… I’m okay.” He leans his head against Theo’s chest, closes his eyes. His heart beats strong, and he’s warm. _So_ warm. Their little world is perfect. Quiet. Painless. Theo will survive. He will move on. Find someone who knows how to handle him. Find someone like Stiles. Someone better.

There’s still one more thing. One wish. Just _one_. “Theo, promise me-" Stiles squeezes his hand. Tries to. But his fingers barely twitch, and his eyes won’t open, and his lips barely part. It’s all going to be over soon. It’s going to be peaceful. He’ll just- he’ll sleep. And when he wakes up, his mom will be there. “Promise-“ ‘ _don’t bring me back._ ’ The words don’t come.  _I love you._  His mouth doesn’t work.

This is the ugly part. His sentence unfinished. His body impossible to warm. He doesn’t feel Theo’s hand any longer, doesn’t hear his heartbeat. His world shrinks.

“You’re going to be as good as new.”

It shrinks until there’s nothing left but the taste of blood in his mouth. He can’t see his mom. He can’t see the light. It’s dark where he goes. It’s empty where he will rest. And maybe, just maybe, that’s okay too.

 

Silence. Everlasting peaceful silence. It’s almost sad. He liked the kid. He was a nuisance, sure, but he was strong, got spunk and had a knack for trouble. But he has to remember, the world is young. He is eternal. They will see each other again. In another body, another life. Sometimes even the most promising people become collateral damage. Sometimes they have to make room for something better, someone who knows what to do. This body vibrates with raw and brutal power, with unrefined and ancient magic. He’ll make good use of it. He’ll take care of it. And when their paths cross again, he will make sure nothing will tear them apart ever again.

Mortals believe death is irreversible. He’s walked the earth long enough to know that’s not the case. Destiny’s humour is rather crude, its plans predictable. They will meet. That's inevitable. Until then, he'll have some fun with the boy who considers himself a god. He certainly has their arrogance. For now, he is going to show his gratitude. After all, he wouldn’t be here without him. He expected the best friend to make a desperate decision to save Stiles. But his priorities laid elsewhere. A wise decision.

Theo will learn that dead things shouldn’t be trifled with.

He sits up when the door to the animal clinic opens. Footsteps. More than he remembers. They must've heard his heartbeat. The loss of invisibility will take some time to get used to. He controls his expression and his features follow, the body moves fluidly, the magic dances at his fingertips. It’s almost _boring_. Almost too easy. He misses the human's spirit, his fight.

His gaze darts to the door of the room he awoke in, watches quietly as those naive, ignorant teenagers pile into the room, thinking they saved their friend, thinking they won.

But he told them.

He warned them they can’t kill him. Did they really believe this caricature of a body was him? Did they really believe catching a fly in a wooden box would be the end? That poor, poor fly. They may not have killed him but they delayed his plans. And for that, there will be hell to pay.

His eyes find blue ones, and he smiles, tears stinging in his eyes. “Theo,” he breathes, buries his face in the crook of the boy's neck after he hauled him into an embrace. Breathless laughter, a sob. Fingers curl into soft fabric. 

Their clock starts ticking. 

He smiles. 

Stiles is dead. Long live Void.


End file.
